Someday We Will Foresee Obstacles
by panicpeachpit
Summary: One-shot. Somehow, Ethan has grown accustomed to tragedies, fire and explosions. In a state of dissociation, he is pulled aside by an old friend, ridden with guilt, who just wants to help - but Ethan is convinced he doesn't need anyone. When has he ever? Spoilers for S34E1. Inspired by "Obstacles" by Syd Matters.


_**Someday We Will Foresee Obstacles**_

The day you are born, you drip with blood. Swollen, red and blue. And you scream, because it's all you know how to do. What else is there to do, besides let your lungs open, and show the world you're here? Alive?

Another thing you do the day you're born is make a fist. A tight, curled, important little fist.

In the dirt, blood and scaffolding, his head bled over his uniform. Ash cloaked all he could see and tarnished each figure to twist into nightmares. There was nothing but anguish and turmoil - light flashed by. Hot, unkind and scalding.

There was only a small piece of light he could cling onto, to know that he wasn't hopeless. And he clung onto that with all he had; copper in his mouth and a vice in his chest. One could hear the screams; they reverberated through the building. And he wanted to help, desperately, but he couldn't move a limb. Each bone was replaced with steel. Yet he felt more fragile than ever.

A shrill sound, like hell, echoed in his brain. It could be alarms, voices, anything. Each thought passed and never returned. He couldn't hold onto anything.

It was the most unsettling form of consciousness he had ever experienced. Alone. And possibly, helpless.

All he could think to do was hold his lips together tight, take in a big breath through the nose, and make a fist - just to know he was alive.

X-X-X

Somebody moulded his hands around the drink. There was a strong scent to it. Something recognisable. Grounding.

"Drink up," said a heavy Irish voice, accented with some sort of... grief. "You're in shock."

Ethan shook his head, slowly, begrudgingly - if there were one thing he knew, he knew he wasn't in shock. He knew he could never be. Nothing shocked him anymore. There were no surprises. He had his life laid out before his eyes; a roadmap of damage, paths trekked a million times over. He was used to walking through the fire.

Shock? No. That was his normal. Shaking, underneath a thready blanket, held together by the sheer fear of being regarded as anything other than _hardy_. That was all he had left.

"Ethan. Please."

With hesitance, he swallowed the hot liquid, almost to prove a point; he wasn't too broken to put on a play. There was familiarity to it, the taste, but he couldn't move his brain quick enough to recognise it; it was stuck in treacle, impossible to manoeuvre. How could he? How could he even try to comprehend this?

"I saw the news. It looked... like hell. All those bodies. Everywhere. I-" A pause. "I'm sorry. I never know what to say. In moments like this. You know? I just. Sorry. Put my foot in it, haven't I?"

He remembered flashes of light. Tight squeezes. Heavy dragging. Leathery slits in his skin. A thin line between was he just fainting right now, or dying? An impossible distinction. All he knew was that, in that moment, he was as close to death as he could be, but somehow, more alive than ever. The pounding, the breathlessness, the adrenaline...

Living, he supposed. He felt alive.

"Talk to me."

"I have absolutely no idea what to say," his words sounded off, like gravel was in his throat. His voice was soft and each word was pronounced, usually. In that moment he didn't recognise the gravelly, unkempt, fragile stranger inhabiting his beaten body.

"I came in here to dress those wounds. You refused to sit in a cubicle. Remember that?"

He couldn't imagine anything worse than being cornered in one of those rooms. Sterile. Antiseptic haunted him. It was the cleanest smell win the world, but in his profession, it was always tainted with the coppery scent of blood. Antiseptic never meant cleanliness. It meant something had gone wrong and you needed a bandage.

"Too tight," he said. "Too... claustrophobic."

"I know."

"Do you, Will? Because I felt like I was going to die. I saw it! I saw it happen. It was like I wasn't even there."

Lips pursed, Will sunk into a chair before him. "Ethan. Of course I don't. Please. Let me treat you."

He'd forgotten he was still holding the cup. Robotically, he lowered it, with Will's assistance. It was almost humorous - moments, no, hours ago, he was agile, quick, and dramatic. It could all change too fast. It did change too fast.

"Were you... scared?"

"Of course," Ethan said. "Who wouldn't be?"

"It just didn't seem like you were. I admired the composure. 'Til I realised you were passing out on me, that is. Took you in here. Didn't think you'd appreciate others seeing you lose your cool."

"I'm not... superficial like that," the words ground out.

"Guess I just thought how I'd feel. I'd be blubbing like a baby and I wouldn't want no-one to see me that way. Ruins the act a bit."

"No, you wouldn't. You'd just do your job."

"Guess adrenaline is good like that, right?"

Ethan let his chin be tilted, feeling warm slide down his grazed cheekbone. Every muscle felt tested and pulled. His body was falling apart. In the end, he supposed he'd have to get used to this. Letting people mend him. Shaky hands were never renowned for good stitches. And bad stitches damaged reputations.

But his hands, at that moment, were steady enough. He pulled away.

"Let me do it."

Will never refused. He let Ethan do as he pleased, pulling out anything reflective he could find. And in that surface was a bruising, listless, empty looking individual, weakly holding steri-strips like he'd never seen one before in his life.

He had to laugh. And this wasn't even the worst he'd ever felt.

"I look... such a... mess."

"You've looked better."

"Why're you here, Will?"

It caused a fidget in Will. "Suppose... after seeing my friend, all stabbed, all bleeding... I wanted to do more. I could've, before. I know that now. But I didn't. Did nothing. Never felt guilt like it, some sort of... shame. I couldn't see it happen to anyone else. Couldn't witness pain. Not even if I got paid for it, a pittance an hour. I wanted to check you were alright. I know I failed her. I didn't want to fail you."

Ethan felt a resounding ache in his chest. To every detail, he understood. He got it.

He let Will stitch his face.


End file.
